


Leg deine Hand in mein' und lass uns ewig sein

by LaStrega



Category: Druck | SKAM (Germany)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballroom Dancing, Blasphemy, Blood Drinking, Catholic Guilt, Historical Inaccuracy, I think?, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-03-10 03:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18930448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaStrega/pseuds/LaStrega
Summary: Matteo, the illegitimate son of priest Florenzi has been questioning his faith ever since his mother took her life when he was six.David, who once fled his home and now roams the night in search for blood, thinks he is not susceptible to human weaknesses anymore.When their paths intertwine, both their worlds get turned upside down.





	1. Dangerous Liaisons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arcanebf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcanebf/gifts).



> this work is for my lovely lovely Matteo, who rallied behind me and listened to my ramblings, I adore you to bits <33
> 
> and it is for the Druck Dumbasses Only Discord for being found family and endlessly amazing
> 
> the title is from the song "Zu Asche, zu Staub", the official theme song from the German series "Babylon Berlin" and means "place your hand into my hand and let us be eternal"

Balls are dreadfully boring and this one is no better.

Ever since he has received the missive, he has been mulling over the thought of just not coming but people expect him to arrive.

He is somewhat of a celebrity and he cannot reject an invitation by Lady Hardenberg herself or he will forever be shunned by high society and he will not bear that as much as he detests the blatant displays of wealth, the peacocking of gentlemen, the tittering laughter of the ladies.

Vanity Fair.

It is nothing more and nothing less than a very elaborate game of showing off.

If you have a pretty wife, you display her like diamonds in a case and let her shimmer but be out of touch. If you have a gamine daughter, you adorn her with the finest of jewels, most expensive of fabrics, nothing out of fashion or the far too willing wheel of the rumour mill will run wild. You let her parade in front of young men who are equally as dressed up, in the hopes of her snagging someone with a title and a good sum of money.

But David knows that time is fleeting for most. He knows that all of the people getting out of decorated carriages pulled by horses with their pelts brushed to a shine with their thoughts focused on giving off the best impression will one day be nothing more than a pile of bones, silent in their graves.

He enters with them, securing the mask on his face, black fabric adorned with feathers that curl into his dark hair. He always goes for simple things, not interested in showing off as much. A girl walks past him, her dress changing colours with the different angles of the light, her mask a beautiful butterfly. Her hair is red, lighting up like fire in the reflections of the chandeliers and he wonders if it would burn his fingers if he touched it.

The music is swirling already and he is offered a goblet of wine, no doubt as expensive as everything here but he declines. There is something he can drunk on much easier and this does nothing for him.

There are three young men rough housing on the dance floor, pulling daring dance moves while laughing and David has to smile. Sometimes it’s not all just shimmer and smile. Sometimes young men break the rules and those three seem to do it often.

One of the young men, brown curls and a detailed bear mask adorning his face calls out a name, asks for someone named Matteo. There is movement and.

David’s world stops for a moment. He is wearing white, his mask the wings of a dove, blue eyes shy and yet so very curious. His neck is long and slender, his hands are moving as he talks but there is something sluggish about him. As if he is sleep walking through life. David cannot stop staring. They share a brief moment, blue (so very blue) meets brown. His skin is pale and briefly David wonders how he would look if blood ran over his lips, those red and lovely lips.

Fuck.

He should stop staring at this ethereal creature, but he feels as if he is physically rooted to the spot, unable to speak, let alone think. A vision in white with a throat that Caravaggio would have given his left leg to paint and still would not have been able to capture the full beauty.

This boy, this young man (Matteo, Matteo, Matteo) joins the other boys after rolling his sky-blue eyes at them and finally David feels as if the spell is broken.

He can move again, in that agile way that is so engraved into his very being. People look at him as he walks past, girls tittering and boys openly looking at him with a mixture of envy and blatant attraction. It is in his nature, seared into his DNA with foreign blood, this pull he exudes. There is that undercurrent of danger but most people just see the beauty of his face, hear the soft rumble of his voice and are done for, would follow his call.

Maybe he should try seducing him. But there was a cross around that beautiful throat of his and if David knows one thing, it is to never touch crosses and to never get close to anyone wearing a cross ever again.

_“You are a freak of nature. Look into the mirrors and see yourself! God has created you in His image and this? This is wrong.”_

Turns out he doesn’t have to try to approach the young man, the prey runs into the arms of the predator all by himself.

He is standing alone, watching the crowd downstairs, trying to appear as if he cares about the glittering and the tittering when there is a sudden commotion down on the dance floor.

“Please save me,” someone pants a moment later and a pale hand comes to rest on the ledge of the balcony overlooking the crowd close to David’s hand. Only a metre and yet eternities apart. “Lady Sara tried to approach me and I fled. Now I fear she is going to rally a search party in order to get me to dance with her.”

A brief moment of silence, awkward shuffling, a pale hand dragged through a dark blond mop of hair. “How rude of me to not introduce myself when I have basically rushed at you. I am Matteo Florenzi. Son of His Holiness Priest Florenzi.”

It’s the young man in the dove mask and up close he is even more impossibly beautiful. He looks so tired, so incredibly drained by life but yet there is a vibrancy to him, to those blue eyes. Despite him looking like he actively wants to die, he is the most alive person David has ever seen.

His words sound rehearsed and as if he is already tired of speaking them even before he opens his mouth. Son of a priest with that golden cross around his lovely throat.

David wants to rip it off and bury his face in the column of soft flesh, sink his teeth into it, break the skin and drink that sweet tasting ambrosia, wants to feel life fleeting from him, see those blue eyes glaze over in death, but he is snapped back to reality by tinkling laughter and the young man hiding behind his back, carefully prodding at him.

Lady Sara is very kind and bubbly but ever since her father has been losing his influence in the court, she has been prone to seeking out men for comfort and apparently right now Matteo is the one who caught her eye. David cannot blame her. There is something in the way his rosebud red lips form and even if he isn’t able to fully see his face he can tell that it is a face worth looking at for all eternity.

He looks at Lady Sarah in her slightly outdated dress and her golden mask, his voice calm in a way that he normally only uses on prey. “I am afraid that Mister Florenzi is already occupied, milady, as I was so forward to ask him for a dance.”

She pouts as he feels Matteo freezing up behind him. Remembers the cross around his throat, his tired, haunted face. David has long given up to live up to society’s norms, he freely dances and flirts with whomever he likes to but it appears that this boy, this young man is not as free as he is.

But despite everything, a gentle, slightly calloused hand places itself into his and blue eyes look at his in shy but open defiance. Of course there are whispers, a crow and a dove dancing together, two men on the dancefloor? Is unheard of.

In that moment he cannot concentrate on the whispers, on the looks, he is not willing to concentrate on them, when he has a warm body right here in his arms, moves them across the polished wood underneath the pompous chandeliers.

“How come I never met you?” Matteo finally asks, his voice barely audible through the breathlessness, the surprise and the elation that David can hear tinting it. “I have been to many of Lady Hardenberg’s balls but this is the first time I have ever seen you.”

“Oh me? I killed someone and had to flee the country rather promptly,” David replies after clasping their hands together and both of them bowing at each other. His tone is joking, lilting but what he is telling him is the furthest from a lie.

Blood on his hands, on his clothes, spattered across his face, the body so still on the ground. His first kill. It had been exhilarating and scary. Discovering his true nature by almost tearing an innocent man apart. It had been pure power.

Matteo does not seem to mind his dark humour, he actually looks rather fascinated, his mouth slightly open, red lips tinted even redder by the wine they serve here in needlessly ostentatious goblets. It almost drives David mad but he brought this on himself, offering refreshments. A droplet of the wine runs past his lips and he mindlessly licks it off, fixating David with those blue eyes of his, as if he could read his thoughts, could see his very nature.

His thought is answered. Matteo would look spectacular baptised with blood. He would be such a hauntingly beautiful sight.

“I never asked for your name. People talk a lot, it is their favourite thing but I never heard your name despite them being openly fascinated by you,” Matteo finally offers, breaking the silence. He is so very attentive, his entire body angled towards David and yes people stare but this is the first time he truly feels _seen_.

“My name is David Schreibner. And oh, do not worry about me, I am a big topic of gossip. People find so much fun in running their mouths, no doubt that they will talk about the little stunt I pulled on the dance floor, dancing with you. But they will all eventually find something new to move towards. Anyway, you should not worry as the last shift we all wear has no pockets, riches and influence do not count in death. Their pompous castles will be nothing more than rubble and they will be a pile of bones rotting away and feeding the flowers. No one will care after everyone who cared is gone,” David tells him and again there is this open, almost hungry fascination in those forget-me-not, ocean-blue eyes.

 

 _Please save me_.

 

If only he knew. 


	2. Agnus Dei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for: suicide mention, veiled but noticeable vomit mention, implied slight self harm
> 
> (i hope it appears now, thanks ao3)

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession.”

The words tumble from his lips with practised ease although they burn his tongue as he speaks. The stone underneath him digs into his knees, the coldness spreading across his skin as if he himself is turning into a statue. He does not know if he would turn into one of the countless seraphim casting judgemental gazes upon the faithful or if he would be one of the demons crushed by the weight of the pillars.

Sometimes he wishes he could be that ghost that he feels inhabiting his body. He hears the soft clinking of wood against wood and the shifting of fabric. The links of his necklace snag into his skin and there is a brief moment in which he wants to rip it off, see the cross fall to the ground, hear it clatter against the stones.

“My son, all are welcome into His house. Confess to me and you shall be free.”

Confessing to his own father, telling him all those twisted words that the Church calls sin.

Is it sinful to dance with another man and enjoy it? Is it sinful to flee from the grasp of a woman because he cannot bear to touch her? Is it sinful to look at the lips of a man and be overwhelmed by the urge to test what he tastes like?

Matteo realises that he has zoned out as his father makes an impatient noise.

“I have enjoyed the company of the rich and influential, Father. I consumed wine and I danced frivolously. I abused alcohol and did not honour your word.”

Sooty eyelashes long enough to tickle his cheeks if he dared lean any closer, eyes the colour of rich soil, dark and beautiful, that undeniable pull, the rumble of his voice, that tendril of danger that only made Matteo all the more curious.

“You did, my son. But all sins can be forgiven. It was not a mortal sin, Matteo, it was a sin of the flesh and the mind and you can still repent. If you are willing to do so, my son. But your willingness to come here and kneel in front of your God shows me that you are.”

 _You are only a representative and not God Himself_ Matteo wants to say but curbs his tongue, clenches his fist until the finely polished beads of his rosary dig into his skin, leave red indents he wants to scrub away. _Repent_.

“Pray five Hail Mary’s, my son and look into the eyes of your Saviour as you do. But now come. Service is upon us and the faithful await the words of God.”

Matteo almost rolls his eyes but gets up, wiping his knees of non-existent dust (his father made sure that the centuries-old floor was scrubbed and mopped to the inch of perfection by his own son) and moves to the front of the church, kneeling in front of the cross dutifully as he knows that his father is watching his every move. While he gets up to arrange the wine and the communion wafers he can’t help but feel like he is being watched.

Why did they have to display their Saviour in his most vulnerable moment, almost naked and bleeding to death, full of pain and fear?

_Father, why have you forsaken me?_

Those carved and painted eyes carry more sorrow than Matteo is able to bear. They look down at him and Matteo feels as if someone pushed a hand into the bones of his skull, turned them soft and vulnerable, made all those misgivings that his father, that his church calls sin visible like a scarlet letter on his chest.

His throat constricts and he has to take several deep breaths, grab the cross around his neck until the fine edges cut into his palm. He swears softly as blood begins to well up and a single drop stains the pristine floors. He hastily gets up before anyone notices and collects the psalm books he is supposed to distribute.

The service is as boring as he remembers it to be, he almost falls asleep standing at the altar as his father drones on about the covenants of marriage and the importance of faith while the people sitting in the pews are hanging onto his every word. They come as he calls to tasting the body and the blood of Christ, lining up like sheep to the slaughter. As much as he hates this, he is glad that he gets to taste the wine after his father has tasted it. He doesn’t even want to know what tastes like after it has travelled to the last in line.

The goblet is heavy in his hands, the cold metal almost burning his fingers or maybe it is his imagination. The communion wine is dry on his tongue and tastes heavy, stale and bitter. Not nearly as good as the wine that he had at the ball. And the goblet almost slips out of his hands as he remembers those eyes, belatedly realising that he has to hand the item over the next person in line. He smiles awkwardly and the old woman huffs, dutifully taking a sip while Matteo opens his mouth to receive the bland communion wafer.

The psalms they recite echo in his ears and he feels himself losing the feeling of time and space until the shuffling of everyone getting ready to leave snaps him out of his trance. Some people look at him as he gets ready to collect offering, he can hear whispers and swallows down the words that want to spill from his lips like bile marring the finely scrubbed floors, eating at the stones.

_“Illegitimate. Was his father in his right mind to take in that woman who was so mad that she went into the river with stones in her pockets after she screamed at the altar of this very church? After she bore him a son out of wedlock?”_

They whisper but they might as well shout into the open space, let it echo between the pillars, bounce off of the stained-glass windows. Matteo screws his eyes shut and takes a couple of deep breaths before smiling at the two women and he knows that his smile is fake, is only a mask hiding the anger that threatens to explode outwards. But he manages to keep that smile on his face while the eyes of Jesus stare at him from above. Finally they are gone and he can exhale, letting the rosary glide through his fingers as he silently counts the beads.

The wood feels warm to the touch, much better than the heavy metal goblet. The psalm books are scattered across the pews as his thoughts are across his brain so he takes his sweet time collecting them, not wanting to talk to his father right now. Not wanting to look into the eyes of his superior, seeing the disappointment in his eyes. He fetches a mop and a pail of water to scrub away the spot of blood on the floor, maybe scrubs a little too hard.

When he is done, it is almost nightfall and the faint, silvery slivers of moonlight breach through the large windows, cast long shadows, the ceilings seem to close in on him and Jesus on the cross does not look down at him full of sorrow but full of judgement. His throat feels like it’s constricting, his necklace like a noose around his neck. He has to get out of there.

Finally, fresh air, he breathes it in like a starving man, falls to his knees, feels the earth underneath his fingers. It is still slightly warmed by the summer sun and it grounds him for a precious moment until he slowly gets up, wiping the earth off of his fingers. It falls in crumbs and some of it sticks to his skin, making it feel a little dry to the touch. He feels like a child again, helping worms in the rain, carrying them until he got soaked to the bone, his knees and hands dirty from the mud. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and wipes his eyes with the clean part of his hand.

He walks along the path to the graveyard. In these moments he fiercely misses his Mama, wants to hug her, speak to her but he can’t. She is below the earth just at the edge to the forest at the outskirts of town. Her body was apparently not good enough for the sacred soil and as his father and his religion told him time and time again: people who succumb to the same darkness his mother succumbed to do not deserve to be buried in the vicinity of the cross. So he just wanders, lost in his thoughts.

The gravestones are sticking out of the ground like teeth from a monster’s maw. Some of them worn down by age, grey and crooked, covered by moss. Some he touches are new, the epitaphs still fresh, the lettering still legible. He is walking amongst families, lovers, children, lonely souls and for a moment, with the moon casting its silvery light, he does feel like he is part of something at least. It is so dark that he almost doesn’t notice the silhouette amongst the trees but when he does, he stills, looking at it… him. It is the young man from the ball. David. Standing next to the looming mausoleum bathed in moonlight.

Matteo doesn’t know if he should approach him so he just spends a moment gathering to his breath, trying not to stare too much but he can’t really help it. Not much is to make out because the mausoleum is too far away but there is that pull again and he decides to follow it, making his way towards the building.

Seeing him up close words effectively escape him. Without a mask obscuring his face David is devastatingly beautiful, the moon caressing his face with the hands of a lover, casting him in silvery rays and for a moment he is more beautiful than all the saints Matteo has ever kneeled for.

They look at each other in silence that stretches until Matteo manages a smile that he is sure is terribly awkward and David smiles back, angling his body towards Matteo. It is a strangely fluid movement as if his muscles know exactly where to go before he even moves.

Like a dancer. Or a predator.

It is so strange to be paid attention to so much, to be watched like this. Those dark brown eyes, alive and apparently avidly interested, examining him like he is a fascinating subject. No judgement, no disappointment, nothing but open curiosity. And a smile that makes his heart race in his chest.

“It is wonderful to see you again, Matteo.”


	3. Strange Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David bumps into Matteo in the grave yard of the church and they talk
> 
> perceptions change and David discovers something about himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: general vampirism and a mention of blood, existentialism 
> 
> hey gays, guess who is back and wrote like 3k in a sort of weird writing frenzy? It me

The church is looming overhead, an impressive shape casting shadows along the pavement. It is beautiful but in the last light of day it seems a hulking giant and David’s skin crawls, goose bumps break out. He looks up at the crosses on the turrets of the church, four in total, their silhouettes dark against the evening sky. It almost reminds him of a basilica in its opulence, white-washed decorations and beautiful sandstone in a buttery yellow.

He likes coming here. Sometimes walking among the graves is the only way of remembering those who are gone, tracing their names on the headstones, plucking flowers and gifting them to someone who has no one left to gift them anything.

The gate creaks when he pushes it open and a bird takes flight, wings fluttering and heart beating fast. The gate hasn’t been oiled in quite some time but no one really knows this side entrance or has used it in years.

This building is one of the oldest in this town, has seen countless burials, weddings, christenings. It almost feels like an old companion. Sometimes stone and rubble is all that remains of someone he loved. He lets the palms of his hands brush the tall grass, lets it tickle his skin and revels in the sensation. He needs those reminders of being alive sometimes.

Being a creature of the night gave him powers he never dared dream of, fulfilled desperate wishes but he so dearly wants to keep his ties to humanity. He has witnessed some of his kin forget about their lives and despite the pain of remembering, he does not want to end up like them.

The graves are decorated with flowers, garlands and circlets. Most of them are white lilies, graveyard flowers, mourning flowers. An angel has raised their hands to the sky in silent lament and a single rose has been placed in their palms, soft pink standing out between all the grey and white. Their body is partly covered by moss, the plant growing up the stone, little ferns and mushrooms sprouting off of it, bugs and small red spiders scuttling along the feet of the angel.

He carries the deep urge to commit those sensations to memory, to remind himself what a beating heart sounds like, what pain feels like. Eternity is a long time to spend alone, he doesn’t get attached, he gets interested but that is everything there is. Curiosity mixed with a longing he himself cannot explain. He has all he needs, powers, knowledge, his true form. What is there to long for? So he just collects. Sensations, memories, feelings, faces.

Curious blue eyes behind a white-winged mask. Golden cross around a slender neck.

As moonlight slowly rises, pale fingers grazing the horizon, he makes his way to the mausoleum, the only one on these hallowed grounds. There is something so strange about buildings like these. They house bodies and yet no one. They are a home to bones and dust and memories.

Gravel crunches and it makes him look up. Blond hair, looking like spun silver in the moonlight. A heartbeat, steadfast and sure. Human. It elevates slightly as their eyes meet and maybe, just maybe the corners of David’s lips tick up into a smile.

It is him. The young man from the ball. Matteo. And he is coming closer. Moving slowly but determined as if he is moved by a pull from deep within. If David had a pulse, it would hammer in his chest, make his breath quicken, his hands shake but as he doesn’t have one, he allows himself to look. He allows himself this moment his mother would have called sinful if she knew.

Matteo is beautiful, there is no other way to describe him. David dearly misses the sunlight in that moment but the soft, silvery rays of moonlight illuminate enough. Blue eyes, a sloped nose, gentle features. There is a boyish innocence about him, in the slight roundness of his cheeks sharpened by manhood. His eyes are curious but downcast, so different from the previous night. Shy. David feels his fingers itch with the deep wish to sketch him, to permanently ban his face onto the pages of his sketchbook. He wants to make him immortal and if only through the strokes of his charcoal.

Silence stretches between them. It is not stifling or made to be filled with idle chatter, it simply is. There is a barely concealed longing in those blue eyes. David does not know for what but it rattles something deep inside of him. If he did not know himself better he would even say that he is flustered.

With movements that are too fluid to belong to a human he angles his body towards Matteo, taking him in fully, observing his shy smile. Maybe the alcohol made him bold, maybe the chance of freedom but this? This is vastly different but still fascinating. He cannot help but smile back. How wonderfully strange humans are.

When he tells Matteo that it is wonderful to see him again, he means it. He does not often get the opportunity to meet a chance encounter again and mostly just goes out of his way to not get attached. But this? He actively waited, he feels something like happiness when Matteo pushes himself off of the wall of the building to suggest a walk around the graveyard. It is so weird but he lets it be for the time being.

The night sky is clear and stars are scattered across the vast darkness, reminding him how in consequential life really is. He is immortal and has seen the rise and fall of at least one nation but humans with their soft skin and short lives will not survive. He has spent 21 years of his life as one and this? The strength, the abilities that come with this existence? Much better than the life he lived before.

They walk side by side and at one point Matteo bends down to look at a flower, the buds closed for the night and David watches him, notices how the pale moonlight illuminates his slender throat and something awakens deep inside of him, the instinct to tilt Matteo’s head back, bury his teeth in the column of that throat and drink.

Drink until the body goes limp in his arms, still and cold. It would be so easy to just discard him in the forest surrounding the village, cover his shallow grave with leaves and leave before the villagers discover that the son of their priest is dead. Killed by what they would call a monster.

But he suppresses that urge, instead stops in the shadow of a large oak tree, the leaves and branches painting a pattern onto the ground. Keeps his eyes trained on the young man until he looks up, his cheeks slightly flushed and if David’s eyes do not betray him, his hands are shaking slightly. There is a silent question in his eyes, open, hungry curiosity.

David beats him to it with a question of his own. A challenge.

“According to the teachings of your father, do you feel that humanity is weak?”, he carefully tests the waters, not wanting to reveal that this really is his point of view for the danger of discovery, of othering himself. “Because I know that we all have our sins and are prone to follow them rather than morality. We subject ourselves to prideful actions, to greed, stealing and pettiness. There have been wars and there will be wars again.”

He is careful to use ‘us’ and not ‘you’ even though he does not feel as if he is subject to those human instincts. He sure can be greedy and full of pride but nothing like the human weakness can touch him anymore. He was changed, has grown stronger, better. He is something most humans dream of being, wields powers even kings would be jealous of.

Matteo turns to look at him, his eyes alert and full of something that David hasn’t seen since the ball. It is a fire, blue and burning. Different from the open attraction but the heat feels very similar and David can’t help but bask in it, almost wanting to curl up like a snake on a warm rock. And he is curious as to what Matteo has to say.

“Maybe you believe that humanity is weak. My father certainly tried to teach me that we should all just repent and walk on our knees in the shadow of the cross. I watch believers come into this church every Sunday to pray, to receive absolution from the sins they think to have committed,” Matteo begins, his voice soft and halting in the beginning, as if he has to allow himself to speak such an amount of words. But then his voice picks up strength and David can’t help but lean a little closer, fascinated by the sudden change.

“But… my mother loved me. She carried on until she couldn’t anymore. We are willing to die for the safety of our loved ones. My father says that love is what makes humans weak but love is what saved us. At least according to the Holy Book. We all have this deep seated will to survive. And one person cannot stop a war but I think if enough people want peace we can band together and form an opposing movement. I would not call that _weak._ ”

He stops to take a deep breath, closes his eyes, slumps against one of the stones as if that little speech has deeply exhausted him, his entire body language drained and tired.

But David has never been more intrigued by anything or anyone before. He can’t help but _look at him_. The fascination in this strange human is just growing the more he discovers about him. He has seen a lot of people along the path of his existence but Matteo is so very different. He cannot pin down why he is different but maybe for once he doesn’t need an explanation for something that is so tangible.

Faces blur, names get lost but this? This delightful happenstance? Walking in a graveyard with someone breathing and alive? Someone who openly challenges his point of view with a soft but defiant voice? He lets his gaze wander along the ground until he sees a small white flower not yet closed, soaking up the moonlight. A strange flower fitting for someone strange. David bends down and cups his hands around the blossom, whispers a small apology before he unearths it, subjects it to a slow death for a moment of beauty.

Holds it up and approaches Matteo with a determined gait. Blue eyes flick up and grow large at the sight of the flower in David’s hand, he wants to open his mouth to say something, David is sure of it. For a moment Matteo’s cross catches the rays of moonlight, makes the gold shimmer silvery, softens the edges. But he doesn’t flinch, just looks, his eyes curious and wide as David approaches and lifts the flower, carefully tucking it behind Matteo’s ear, his fingers accidentally caressing warm, slightly flushed skin.

They are so close that David can smell him, can hear his heart racing in his chest, can feel the warmth emanating from Matteo’s skin. Again there is the little voice in the back of his mind whispering _bite him, drain him_ but right now he pays no attention to it. Human touch, this moment, is more important to commit to memory than the rising thirst in the back of his throat.

After a moment that feels as if it lasts a lifetime he steps back and can’t help but smile at the baffled look on Matteo’s face, the blush that is visible even in moonlight. Sees the small shake of his head, hears the huff of breath exhaled that indicates that Matteo held it while David made his small move. “Let us walk for a little while,” he offers and Matteo agrees far too easily, falling in stride with him. He is still flushed but he seems to want to use their walk to distract himself from whatever happened just moments before.

They meander around between tombstones and flowers, silence encompassing them again. David cannot help but glance up once in a while, noticing the shimmer of the flower still securely tucked behind Matteo’s ear. Something gives off a faint glow from between the trees and he steps closer, bends down to pick up the light object, hears Matteo’s gasp.

“David!” he exclaims and comes closer. “That counts as _grave robbing_ ,” he hisses and looks at the skull in David’s hands with wide, scandalised eyes. “Where did you get that?!”

“He was hidden beneath the leaves of this rose bush, see?”, David points out and can’t help but be amused, a part of him deeply thrilled by the way his name sounds from Matteo’s lips. “I guess death makes you lonely so I took pity in him. It’s not like he can _object_. And I do think he deserves to see more than just the darkness of a grave.”

_Darkness, coldness, everything muffled, earth down his throat, panic crawling along his spine, that animalistic instinct making him burst through the surface. Moonlight on tombstones, the serene face of an angel. Thirst burning along his throat._

David blinks and smiles at Matteo, who just looks very puzzled, not disgusted or scared. So different from every human David has ever met before. “He?”, he asks, his eyes and tone curious. “How do you know that this is a male skull?”

Instead of answering, David lifts up the skull and looks into empty sockets, striking his best lamenting pose. “Alas, poor Yorick…”, he beings the soliloquy and watches a slow grin bloom on Matteo’s face like a foreign flower. Finally, he decides to answer because he can smell the tiredness creeping along Matteo’s bones like a dark vine. “I just took a wild guess. But somehow I can… feel that this was a man,” he explains and carefully places the skull back to where he found it. Back to the roses and thorns. “I do not know how or why but I can.”

Matteo nods and does not seem to want to object, instead rubbing his eyes and yawning. It is so human, something David had almost forgotten. The sun forces him to stay in darkness, makes him sluggish, drenches his bones in tiredness. But he has forgotten this. Such a simple little movement. “Who is Yorick?”, Matteo asks tiredly, interrupting his musings.

“I will tell you about a bard by the name of William Shakespeare. But not tonight. You seem tired. I will accompany you back,” David decides and they walk along the path back to the church looming over them. There is a small house behind it, almost hidden by the other building and Matteo stops in front of the door made from pale wood. Watches David.

“We shall see each other again, I hope. Lord Richter is holding a ball in honour of his daughter getting engaged and I will attend, of course. Your attendance would be much requested,” David says and watches Matteo’s mouth fall open slightly, before he swallows, nods and answers: “My father wishes me to learn to resist the urge to sin, so… maybe.”

A maybe is better than outright rejection and denial.

“Until then, I hope. Goodnight, Matteo,” he says and watches Matteo turn around in the open doorway illuminated by the moonlight, the flower still securely tucked behind his ear, a shy smile curving along his lips.

“Goodnight, David. I enjoyed our evening,” he replies, his voice soft and tired before he closes the door behind himself, leaving David standing in the small and unkempt garden.

He shakes his head slowly and makes his way away from the church, out of the shadow of the cross, almost flees, his speed increased by mounting thirst.

As he kneels over the body of someone who watched children with a far too keen and hungry eye, blood staining the corners of his mouth, hunger abated, he keeps thinking back to blue eyes, wide and curious, full of fascination.

The grave is easily dug, deep enough that the body won’t be discovered and dead leaves hiding any signs. It is second nature to him now, hiding and being stealthy.

As he washes his earthy hands, cleans his bloodied mouth in a nearby stream, he cannot help but search for a reflection in the water. His own face looks back at him, distorted by the swirling current, eyes full of questions.

So yes, he collects. He tries to remember everyone that ever crossed his path. Has all their faces preserved like pressed flowers between the pages of his sketchbook. Has a box of memorabilia, necklaces, watches, letters that are yellowed by age.

But Matteo? Matteo is someone who has intrigued him like no one ever did before.

The thirst is gone, the urge to drain him is gone, replaced by a deeply-rooted fascination to get to know this strange young man with the shy smile even more.

David knows that he is doomed.


End file.
